


origin stories

by gdgdbaby



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Slice of Life, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Migraines might get in the way of casual sex, but never ambition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	origin stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeletonsmama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonsmama/gifts).



> connor character study fic! warnings for very brief mentions of homophobia & mild violence.
> 
> dearest recipient, i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it! ♥

On Friday, after his second contracts class of the year, Connor forgoes a coffee date with the cute redhead sitting diagonally across the aisle in favor of going back to the apartment for a long bath. He has all year to get in the guy's pants, anyway—and honestly, keeping a running tally of every obscure, derailing question Doucheface McGee had asked just to flaunt his superior knowledge had given Connor a low-grade migraine ten minutes into the lecture. He really, really needs the soak.

At a quarter to six he climbs out of the lukewarm water and towels himself dry, limbs slow and leaden with lethargy. The headache has finally subsided into a dull pounding at his temples, so at least that's something of an improvement. He slides a clean razor blade out of the mirror cabinet and scrapes it gently across his face until he's achieved the perfect trim. And then: a dash of crisp aftershave along the underside of his chin, two pumps of gel for his hair, Ferregamo oxfords to go with the pressed suit laid out on his bed.

When he gets to the door, he doubles back to his kitchenette and, on second thought, pops two Advil for the road. Connor's got people to charm, first impressions to make. Migraines might get in the way of casual sex, but never ambition.

 

 

Middleton Law's fall mixer happens every year in the foyer of the Millstone Building at the end of the first week of class. Connor strolls in through the arched entryway and makes a beeline straight for the first person he recognizes, which happens to be his torts professor, a severe old white man who lectured with the monotonous drone of a vacuum cleaner and was referred to more often as Flatulence than Flaherty behind closed doors. Michaela's already there, in a bright red dress and leopard print blazer, fluttering at the fringes of the group of students around the professor. She looks like she's about to either nod off into her champagne or pass out from low blood sugar. Possibly both.

"Professor," Connor cuts in smoothly, arm outstretched, eyes crinkling with his best yearbook grin. "Your defamation lecture yesterday morning was fascinating. I'd love to talk about it more at your office hours next week." The corner of Flaherty's mouth twitches minutely as he shakes Connor's hand. It's probably as much of a smile as Connor is ever going to get out of him, so he takes the win.

After Flaherty moves on to entertain the next bright-eyed first year attempting to kiss his ass, Michaela raises her flute and murmurs, "I see you're oozing charm tonight. Do you ever turn off?"

"Funny," Connor returns, raising an eyebrow. "I could ask you the same thing. Don't hate the player, princess." Michaela makes a face. "Doucheface at your six, by the way, and incoming fast."

Michaela sits through five minutes of Doucheface's awful sweet talking before brandishing the huge ring on her finger ("Wait, you have a _fiancée_?"), though Connor's pretty sure she could've easily laid the smackdown on him the moment Asher had come over. He gets the feeling Michaela just enjoys watching him flounder. It isn't a sentiment Connor's unfamiliar with.

Waitlist walks in half an hour late, when they're talking to Professor Keating's husband, who, naturally, he doesn't recognize. Sam asks them a bunch of stock questions, including the predictable—"What made you decide to come to law school?" Michaela gives a textbook answer about always knowing what she's wanted to with her life, and sends Connor a withering glancce when he rolls his eyes.

"What?" he says, raising his hands. Annalise narrows her eyes, calm and assessing. "Listen, every aspiring law student I've ever met has told me that they've wanted to be a lawyer since, like, the womb. For some of them, that might even be true." Connor nods at Doucheface, who rewards him with a bewildered expression that would put an owl to shame. "I mean, I get it. Lawyers are supposed to be storytellers." He twirls the empty champagne flute in his hands and gives Michaela his most winning smile. "If you get me to believe yours, you might even become a good one."

 

 

Ten minutes later, Connor breaks away from the niceties to roam around the refreshments table, where he bumps into Cute Kid from contracts. Just his luck. "Hey," the guy says, swallowing hastily around a bite of dry bruschetta. "Connor, right? It's Ben, from—"

"Contracts," Connor finishes, and watches as Ben flushes the same red as his hair. "Good to see you again."

"Sorry, I would've said hi earlier, but you were talking to Asher Millstone and I didn't want to interrupt."

"Please feel free to come to my rescue next time," Connor says fervently. "You know, I've been keeping track of how many times he raises his hand during class. I might even do a detailed data analysis at the end of the semester if torts doesn't kill me."

Ben tosses his head back and laughs.

 

 

By the end of the evening, Connor's touched bases with every professor in the room and skulked near the entrance of the Millstone building in a loose circle of tipsy first years. Ben shuffles down the steps in front of him two at a time, hands stuffed in his pockets, nibbling on his bottom lip. Adorable. "You wanna get out of here?" he finally asks, peering at Connor through his bangs.

Connor cocks his head to the side to consider it. The remnants of his headache have been replaced with a pleasant buzz, and he can afford the Saturday morning lie-in if he makes up for it on Sunday.

He opens his mouth to say yes, but the silence must stretch on for too long because Ben's eyes snap wide with consternation. "Sorry, did I read it wrong? Were you not actually interested—I just assumed—"

Connor reaches out to squeeze Ben's forearm. "Relax, dude," he says, letting his lips curl. "You read everything right, okay? I'll go home with you." He snorts softly when Ben doesn't unclamp his rigid shoulders. "God—you're just like the first guy I ever had sex with. So cute, but so _nervous_."

Ben's entire face goes pink again. "I'm not nervous." He steers them stiffly toward south campus, the streetlights winking at them through the trees. Connor keeps his hand on the crook of Ben's elbow and lets himself be led.

"Totally nervous," he murmurs under his breath.

Ben shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Tell me more about your first lay."

"Oho," Connor says, sending Ben an appraising glance. "The beast awakens." He purses his lips, squinting into the foliage above their heads. "There's not much to tell. We jerked each other off and he tried to fuck me up the ass. Didn't work the first time, but then I actually got him hard again, and—well. Let's just say he didn't last very long. I mean, we were fifteen, right?"

He isn't sure if it's the alcohol or the sound of Ben's clear laughter that loosens his tongue, but he doesn't even feel bad about the overshare.

They stumble into Ben's apartment with their hands in each other's pockets. Connor almost trips trying to toe his shoes off, but Ben catches him in time, presses him hard into the wall, mouth slanting over his with patient insistence, tongue moving slow like molasses against Connor's.

When they make it to the bedroom, Connor feels for the sharp shoulder blades beneath Ben's shirt and backs them up until his knees hit the bed. He unbuttons both their shirts with wobbling fingers, and his mouth waters a little as he watches Ben's muscles work under his skin, already ready to reach out and smooth his thumbs over the ridges of his ribcage.

Connor's knees leave little divots in the foamy mattress as he braces his legs around Ben's hips. Ben reaches out and carefully rucks Connor's pants down, takes his cock in his hands, fingers wrapping around the soft shaft. "Ah, shit," Connor says, lashes fluttering. He leans forward, mouth latching onto Ben's collarbone and sucking hard. He reaches down to tug at Ben's burgeoning erection, pulls it to full hardness with ease. "You have lube, right?" _Stupid question_ , he thinks, _of course he does_ , but Ben doesn't seem to mind, hips bucking erratically into Connor's hands.

"Yeah," Ben gasps, gesticulating at the bedside table with a haphazard wave of his hand. Connor lunges forward and yanks the drawer open. Rips a condom package open and slides it on himself, picks up the half-used bottle of lube and tosses it between his hands.

Ben lets out a muffled sound when Connor straddles him again. He dribbles lube against his fingers and curls two into Ben at once just to feel him tense up, head falling back against the pillows. Connor fucks him slowly like that, listening to the slick sound of his fingers moving in and out, clean hand braced against Ben's neck like a collar. Ben's back arches as Connor twists his fingers in deeper, and then fits a third in with a loud squelch. "Please, Connor."

"Yeah, alright," Connor says. He props Ben up against the pillows and slides into him in one smooth motion, starts fucking him in earnest, fingers curled loosely around the base of Ben's dick to keep him from coming too fast. He isn't a screamer, which Connor could have guessed, but he lets out these quiet little noises of satisfaction with each one of Connor's forward thrusts.

Connor can feel the pressure building at the tops of his thighs and surges forward one more time, toes curling in the sheets, ignoring the cramp brewing in his calf. Ben tips his head up and kisses him, tongue curling up against the roof of Connor's mouth, humming against his lips—two sweaty bodies rocking into each other as Connor spills in the condom and Ben stripes their stomachs.

They both settle in bed afterwards, sweaty and sated, Ben curled up against Connor's chest like a big house cat. Connor isn't usually one for post-sex conversation, but doesn't protest when Ben turns, strong nose nudging against his cheek, and asks, grinning, "Better than your first time?"

"Ha," Connor says, muffling a yawn. "Definitely. I hope you wear that badge with honor."

A moment later, Ben sighs. "So I didn't do much actual mixing at the mixer. I assume that was the whole point of that exercise." He sounds regretful, like a puppy that got kicked too hard in the stomach.

"Alright," Connor says, against his better judgment. "You can practice with me. Lawyer pillow talk."

Ben purses his lips in the low light. "What made you decide to come to law school, Mr. Walsh?"

Connor snorts loudly. "Would it kill you to be a little more creative?"

"Hey, I've just had my brains fucked out, so cut me some slack. I'm in recovery."

"Okay, okay. Remember the first lay I mentioned?"

"Yeah, the minute man."

"Some kids got wind of the fact that we were gay and decided they didn't like it. You know, typical idiot kid stuff, no need to angst too much over it. I was okay because my parents were rich but the other guy didn't have it so hot. So I decided to take matters into my own hands."

Ben whistles. "Look at you, you vigilante."

Connor huffs into the pillow beneath his head. "More like—see kids ganging up on other kid who gave me a passable handjob, walk over and beat the shit out of their leader. Splitting his mouth open was the sweetest thing I'd ever done up until that point." He smiles with teeth when Ben glances over his shoulder, and gestures languidly at himself. "More than just a pretty face."

"What does any of this have to do with you coming to law school?"

"Getting there," Connor says, stretching out. "So the bully kid's parents pressed charges, and mine hired the best lawyer money could buy for a fifteen-year-old boy out in suburban Philadelphia. I'll never forget the way she reamed them out in the pretrial hearing. Scared them shitless, spun an incredible story about how this story would make press as a queer boy practicing self defense in a callous, hateful environment, and that my parents were seriously considering a countersuit. I don't even know if any of it was true, but they never brought it up again, the charges were dropped, and I got off with a minor discipline charge on my school record."

Ben's quiet for a long while. Connor's almost certain he's fallen asleep, but then he turns, mattress shifting beneath them, his hand smoothing down the expanse of skin from Connor's waist to his pelvis, and asks, "What happened to the other kid?"

Connor smiles. "He decided to break things off with me. I guess I wasn't worth it, or something." He leans in close and presses another kiss to Ben's neck. "And me—well. You know. I decided to become a lawyer."


End file.
